


feel like makin' love

by r1ker



Category: The Nice Guys (2016)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 15:55:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6760405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r1ker/pseuds/r1ker





	feel like makin' love

"Get drunk with me."

 

Apart from who's saying it Jackson has his own objections to knocking back one or ten with Holland. For one he prefers to get drunk alone, having developed a reputation for being a strange drunk preferring solace than to putting his loss of inhibitions on display. And, sort of on the same plane, he has no clue what Holland's like when he's drunk. Or at least, from start to finish, sober to inebriated.

 

Too many "don't know's" for Jackson to agree to it right off the bat. Holland is persistent, rambles on for about fifteen minutes about his favorite club on the opposite end of the town they're in now, and finally Jackson agrees.

 

However, he has his ground rules.

 

For one they'll sit near the back of the club after a solid dinner that can hopefully absorb some of the alcohol. Jackson makes clear he doesn't drink anything that has to have a juice accompany it, doesn't put anything in his mouth not over ice or that hasn't been distilled for at least half his lifespan. Holland laughs at that last part, mumbles something about how he wanted to find out personally just how good booze was following the Mesozoic era, and Jackson looks down at his watch.

 

It's 12:30. T-minus 6 hours until socially acceptable get-drunk-with-your-partner time.

 

Jackson eats quickly before he gets in his car to drive to the club. He makes sure to stow away a little bit in case Holland went and forgot he wasn't supposed to drink copious amounts on an empty stomach.

 

Homework gets done on the name of the club and he's for one taken aback that he's agreeing to a night with his detective partner at a place called the Frolic Room. In all that he's learned about the nightlife in California he's never heard of the place, and he's yet to decide if his curiosity will come back to bite him in the ass once this night has concluded. Either way he's already here long before Holland is of course, staying in his car even as people begin to pour into the establishment as night begins to settle over the city.

 

Soon Holland pulls up behind him and parks his car, the chassis jolting a little as he all but runs out of his car in excitement. He clambers into the passenger seat even as Jackson starts to get out and lock his car, getting back out and scooting to the front of the car. Jackson can tell he's a regular by the way people call out their hellos, their inquiries into how he's doing and other pleasantries. Holland returns them all with that same movie star smile, a few handshakes if they brush close to someone to initiate the greeting, and they get assigned to their table.

 

To Jackson, the place doesn't look all that bad on the inside. It's darker than he's used to for a bar, dimly lit by a few pole lamps tucked behind tables and stage displays promising attractions performing following the dinner rush. They both receive tattered menus of the dinner specials and fleetingly Jackson remembers the chicken spaghetti soaking a hole through the series of paper plates in his back seat but lets Holland order a burger in spite of himself. The waiter turns to Jackson, who makes the first drink request of the evening.

 

"Jack on the rocks, please," he says as he tucks the menus back into the waiter's crooked arm. Holland follows close with a request for a, how he puts it, _dry as a strip club on a Tuesday_ martini with, again, _as many olives as they can cram into the glass_. Jackson snorts, for the damned charmer winks at their server as he departs to get their drinks and food. In the meantime they watch an ensemble set up on the wooden stage, rearrange seats and microphone poles and cords as they prepare to put on their show for the eager patrons.

 

Holland plays with straw papers, puts rolled-up napkins bearing fresh silverware into precarious stacks only to have them tumble down to his soft roars of fake anguish. Jackson's surprised he hasn't pulled an eye muscle rolling his eyes as many times as he has in the last few minutes. He watches him, however, as Holland balances his chin on his folded hands, watching people pass by their tables without a word to be said.

 

"When did you get old enough to have martinis," Jackson asks him to break the silence. Holland shrugs his shoulders, sits upright against the bench seat. It’s strange to see him without the sunglasses on, Jackson figures. Also, from the looks of it, he seems to have tidied up the facial hair. There's no straying fuzz apart from his mustache and Jackson likes it, likes a guy that knows to take care of those things. He could do without the 'stache itself but for now, he'll deal with the tidied mess.

 

The drinks and a rather impressive burger arrive in no time and Holland tucks in, but not before giving the martini a once-over to see if it fits his specifications. A long drink, in the process swallowing a few olives which is met with a resounding but muffled choke, and with that he nods in the waiter's direction. Jackson murmurs his own thanks for the Jack. Over the lip of his glass he watches Holland devour the burger out of previously neglected hunger.

 

In front of them music begins to play, low pitch and enough to keep the conversations going on around it strong despite its presence. Jackson listens as best as he can and orders two more drinks, beating out Holland a little, who is still working on what he thought at the time would be a manageable burger. Soon he finishes and makes up for lost time in the drink department, knocking back three more martinis before he speaks to Jackson again.

 

"I'm glad to see you've joined me again," Jackson snickers over the neat row of martini glasses separating him from Holland. He hears his own words and they're not nearly as slurred around the edges as they can get under the influence of Jack, so perhaps they're still in the green as to his level of drunk. Holland flags down the waiter again and requests another drink, no longer satisfied with his martinis.

 

A little louder than he perhaps had hoped to pitch his voice he asks, "Jack, please!"

 

Jackson tries to act like he's not thoroughly amused with the way Holland is after glasses of cheap vodka and vermouth but it's impossible. He rolls around on the table a little, even reaching for Jackson's resting hands when the insatiable urge to move just won't stop.

 

The show on stage soon comes to an end and they both find it in themselves to applaud the band right off stage, and from that the normal chatter of customers continues. After that the pace of the whole establishment says. Jackson's hearing's gone muffled from watching Holland get the last few drops of alcohol out of his glass, surpassing the mound of ice, when someone calls out above the din: "It wouldn't be a Frolic Friday without a lap dance contest now would it?" Responding loud whoops and hollers sound. Jackson instantly pays attention and surprisingly, so does a mildly wasted Holland.

 

Chairs are produced and set up in a lazy semicircle in the middle of the dance floor and a few people titter at the sidelines, not knowing whether or not they could ever muster up the courage to gather up their significant other and show complete strangers just what they've got under their sleeves. Minutes past and one young woman tugs her unwilling husband behind her as she shouts to the emcee to pick his favorite song.

 

From there Jackson doesn't pay much attention. It's a dry affair, not even the man's hands on her ass doing much to speed up the act, so they both decide to call it quits about midway through the song chosen to play in the background. It is then that Holland enacts the grand scheme Jackson didn't know was forming. He rises from his seat and leaves behind any clue he's running on a giant's handful of martinis and three healthy Jack and cokes, and pulls Jackson behind him by his hand.

 

Jackson is thrust down onto a chair and Holland looks past the top of his head to the emcee looking down on the scene. With a wink and a raspy scratching sound characteristic of a record making contact with a needle, the show commences. He never gets a chance to sit in the chair properly, for Holland is on him the second the song begins with its first few, soft notes.

 

Jackson feels denim in his hands that he didn't even know weren't dangling uselessly at his side. One of Holland's knees presses against his hip, the other keeping him balanced precariously on Jackson's lap. His hand runs up Jackson's chest over bumps of shirt buttons, coasting up against the grain of the facial hair spilling down onto his neck, and the slight bite of his fingernails is enough to make Jackson swallow.

 

Grinding down onto Jackson's lap he makes careful not to let his knees slip up and over the sides of the wicker chair, child's play for him at least, because maybe or maybe not being drunk increases his reflexes. Holland laughs, continues the slow swivel of his hips side to side, as he watches Jackson's pupils dilate, swallowing the light coming from yellowed lamps above them. He then answers this response to his actions with a near-kiss, his lips skating over Jackson's in lazy mimicry of what so many have done at this bar on this night.

 

Around them the entire establishment has fallen silent. The music gets turned up a little more with each passing minute Holland completes his dance seemingly on autopilot. At once he gets up from the seat, leaves Jackson sitting stunned before him. If it didn't make him seem like a desperate fool Jackson would go after him but instead he waits dumbfounded in his chair, watches Holland fall to his knees to the ground and all but drag himself back to Jackson in a brilliant spectacle.

 

Holland gets to Jackson's knees and stops, brings himself up by way of his hands on Jackson's knees and presses his lips to the man's chin, then his mouth. A noise of warning leaves him when Jackson's hands grip him a little too hard, as they both get involved in the kiss. He pulls back and climbs back into Jackson's lap, lets him now have his way like he has wanted to for what seems like ages now. Hips still work against Jackson's lap, hands roaming in his hair, and he wishes they'd gone to this place on earlier Fridays.

 

The song comes to an end and Holland calls it quits, rises from the seat and completely disassembles himself from Jackson. Jackson takes a second before getting up, straightening out his shirt and following Holland to the back where the bathrooms await. As they leave the people erupt in chatter responding to what they've just seen. Jackson doesn't hear a word of it. He's got his sights solely on Holland, who strides into the men's room intent on executing the second phase of his Friday night plan.

 

The bathroom door slams behind him as Holland's shoved up against it, shirt almost ripped as Jackson's hands fist it, kissing him roughly. He works his pants off while trying to do the same to Jackson only to find the angle was much too severe to let him work. Now, rethinking the layout of their bodies, he kicks softly against the hem of the man's jeans, manages to get them around his ass before he gives up to retreat back to the feel of Jackson's mouth on his.

 

They settle on keeping it limited given the narrow setup of the men's room. Holland rocks into the feel of Jackson's hand on his dick, gripping his hip in the other to keep him steady. His arms wrap around his neck, breathing past his ear hoping no one out there will conclude they went in there to finish what they started. He bucks against the door when he comes with a loud whine and almost loses what control he did have. Jackson's there, he's always there, and like he didn't think he could, he comes in his pants when Holland kisses him through his own aftershock.

 

The bathroom falls quiet after that. Holland can't seem to catch his breath. Jackson tries cleaning the mess they both have made, grabbing fistfuls of dampened paper towels and wiping down shirts and pants, but ends up with his head on Holland's shoulder, looking up at his profile in search of the next step. Holland doesn't seem to have a clue either so until it's been announced it's last call, they sit on the floor in the bathroom in silence, Jackson's head in his lap, fingers running in his hair.


End file.
